


Eleventh Hour

by GENERAL_KENOBI22



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types
Genre: Crew as Family, Final Battle, Gen, Takes Place at the End of ME2, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27461116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GENERAL_KENOBI22/pseuds/GENERAL_KENOBI22
Summary: In the hours before the Suicide Mission, the Normandy crew spends their last moments reflecting on what they're fighting for.
Relationships: Normandy Crew & Male Shepard





	Eleventh Hour

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't think it was possible to love an RPG as much as I loved _Knights of the Old Republic_ , but here we are. I wrote the majority of this around 2013, and periodically would come back to it, wanting to expand it (originally, my plan was to include ALL the crew), however, that never happened. But in the spirit of the _Mass Effect: Legendary Edition_ announcement, I wanted to post something, so who knows! Maybe I'll come back to this after I binge through the series next spring. Either way, I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it!
> 
> Some worldbuilding notes: Shepard is paragon male (even though FemShep is my everything), and Ashley survived, not Kaiden.

* * *

Shepard's not afraid to die.

Hell, he's already done it once before.

He's not exactly eager to do so again, by any means, but he's able to sit with it. He accepts it.

What he truly fears—what he can't accept—is loss. Already he has lost so much—family, crew, friends. It's hard to imagine it's only been two years since it all started. Some nights—the ones where he can't sleep, and the realization of what they're doing, what they're up against, becomes horrifyingly tangible—those two years feel like an eternity. And eternity takes its toll eventually.

He suspects the crew feels it, too, though none of them visibly show it. He thinks about how much they all have left behind, how much they've sacrificed, and how they've all willingly signed up for this so-called "suicide mission." Not one of them is guaranteed to come out of it alive, yet they all follow him so willingly, expecting him to lead them to some kind of salvation.

He thinks Kaiden may have laughed at the irony.

Shepard's not afraid to die. He is afraid of loss, though. A loss—in his case—of hope that anyone will come out of this alive.

A loss of faith: that all of it was in vain.

* * *

Miranda Lawson used to be annoyed by Jack's little nickname "Cerberus Cheerleader."

It's funny how a dangerous charge into Collector space reminds you which fights are really worth picking.

The truth of the matter is she doesn't mind the title so much anymore. She grudgingly accepts that it sort of suits her. She only puts forth her best effort in projects she truly believes in.

It's why the Illusive Man hired her. It's why she joined up with Cerberus in the first place. It's why she fought so hard to keep Oriana from enduring the same hell she suffered with her father. It's why she headed Project Lazarus.

It's why she volunteered to shadow Shepard, to join his crusade. As someone with perfect genetics, she's not easily impressed. But Shepard's different. Although she trusts the Illusive Man implicitly, she always wondered why the Commander was so special and why Cerberus was so willing to devote all its resources into the project. But now that she has worked with him, worked beside him, she understands all the fuss.

Shepard's mere presence demands attention, he fights for his convictions, and in just a short amount of time, he has won the allegiance of the entire crew in a way she never could.

Miranda's still human; she's not perfect. A small part of her fears they might fail in their mission. An even smaller part of her envies Shepard's abilities, his success that he's achieved without any genetic enhancements, without the emotional baggage. It makes her feel inadequate. Makes her feel small. Makes her wonder whether her loyalties have blinded her to the stark reality that this will likely be her last night alive.

She brushes those thoughts away—usually—and leans into what she knows to be true. One, she has a lot to fight for: Oriana, humanity, the Illusive Man, her own life. And two, perfection does not allow for error.

So, yes, she is the "Cerberus Cheerleader," and she'll tirelessly root this crew through to victory, and Jack, for all she's worth, can piss off.

* * *

When all of this is over, the only thing Jacob wants to do is go for that drink on the Citadel. Maybe get some shore leave. Most of all—though, most unlikely—maybe save humanity, destroy Harbinger, and eliminate the Reaper threat altogether.

He never admits to himself, even quietly, that he wants that third option more than he values his own life. Because if he acknowledges it even a little bit, he faces the terrifying reality of not seeing it happen.

There's a reason Cerberus would never spend billions to resurrect his sorry carcass. Shepard has the ability to focus on the big picture, rally the troops, and keep his calm. He effortlessly plays the politics of it all, too.

Jacob doesn't do big picture, and he's never been particularly patient with all the political bullshit either. His emotions get the best of him, and he doesn't mind never rising above pawn status if it means getting the job done.

But Jacob doesn't see any of these things as weaknesses, and he sure as hell doesn't resent Shepard's position or leadership decisions. Their differences are what makes them gel so well. Where one falls short, the other steps up. All things considered, he's glad that Shepard's the one who is leading them to their untimely deaths.

In the end, it's his father that occupies his thoughts, not the salvation of the universe. He thinks about his dad's horrific decisions on the _Gernsback_ , and he wonders—maybe naïvely—if his own actions here on the _Normandy_ can somehow balance them out. You know, the whole 'sins of the father' thing. Jacob's big picture enough to know that nothing he can do will ever make up for his father's travesty.

But he's small picture enough to know he has to try.  
  


* * *

Omega 4 Relay. Leads to Collector space. Highly dangerous. No survivors. Death for _Normandy_ crew statistically probable—no, inevitable. No reason for average sapient being to go. Except Krogan, maybe. Not bright.

Still, _Normandy_ goes. He goes. Shepard leads. Victory uncertain. Shepard doesn't care. Never cared. Still fighting. Still defying odds. For humanity. For life of all kinds.

Thinks of Maelon. Of genophage. Shades of gray. Was right for the time. Certain of it. Proud of what their work accomplished.

Thinks of nephew. Of the future. Different now. Common enemy diminishes ethical, cultural, racial discrepancies. Ineffective tactic from Reaper perspective. Doesn't matter. Shepard fights for life. All life. Even Krogan. Regardless of any intellectual deficiencies. Would have had a problem with it initially, but like he said. Different.

Shepard fights for life. For humanity. Mordin fights for the future. For Maelon. For his nephew.

* * *

Forget the suicide mission. The hardest decision Garrus has to make is which name to slip to the press when they print his death notice on the codex: Archangel or Garrus Vakarian.

On the one hand, Archangel has a history behind it, a mythos that stands for unwavering justice for the innocent and certain punishment for any wrongdoers. People trust Archangel. People fear him.

On the other hand, Garrus Vakarian has its own appeal, too. Intimate friends and family would be able to have closure, while the Turians would have their very own war hero. (No way to know for certain, but he figures he'll do something particularly heroic in the final hours). Plus, every woman in the universe would have the proper grieving time to mourn both the loss of such male perfection and to prepare for settling for Shepard instead.

Heh, that thought makes him laugh, or perhaps grimace.

The question anymore isn't so much if he will die, but rather _when_. And if the Collectors get to choose the when, then he'd like control over the _how_. As in his own brand of badass. You know, give 'em the old Shepard-Vakarian one, two.

The trick is that no one ever expects to see a Turian taking orders from a human, especially in combat. They never see it coming. Maybe it's just his untimely, yet inevitable death at the hand of the Collectors talking, or maybe his scales have gotten soft over the years, but either way, he's never minded being Shepard's go-to number two guy. He's fought alongside a lot of men (and women) during his mostly honest career, but none of them has ever doubled as his superior and...his friend.

No doubt he appreciated the guys he ran with on Omega, but none of them stood by his side while he faced certain death and the end of the universe as they knew it at the hands of Saren and Sovereign. And they sure as hell didn't risk the backs of their own heads just to keep him from searing his own conscience, and of course, his itchy trigger finger.

Regardless of the mission, he would loyally follow Shepard into the depths of that human concept "Hell" and back. Victory is a non-negotiable, and he's in this fight for his gang on Omega, his family, Paleven, the Normandy crew, for Kaiden, and for Shepard. Shepard never backed down from this fight, and neither will he.

Even if it means death.

Even if it means paying up on his bet with Joker: turns out Jack never murdered any of the crew in their sleep. Not even Miranda.

* * *

Kasumi still wonders if keeping Kejii's graybox was the right decision. She knows it was the decision she wanted the most, but the ethics behind it are a bit more ambiguous. Obviously, at the time she didn't bother to consider any moral issues. Sentimentality played a big part, sure, but she has also been a notorious thief for the better part of her life. The mere definition suggests a less than familiar sense of being morally upright. It also suggests a lot of alone time. Overall, she never really had a problem with either. Sneaking around was exciting, while the solitary thing made apprehending trinkets from wealthy, white men uncomplicated and simple.

But then Kejii came along. Turns out having an accomplice wasn't the prison sentence she imagined it to be. Turns out she kind of liked it.

A little too much, apparently.

Which made his death that much more difficult to deal with. Even in the most minuscule details she feels his absence—the cool sheets taking the spot of his warm embrace in her bed, the pity laugh that would follow one of her bad jokes—but the worst offender was on jobs. Suddenly, all the sneaking around and the possibility of capture or death lost some of their appeal. The risk-reward ratio was no longer in her favor, especially since the only reward she counted as having any worth was Kejii's life. Part of her—the part that rarely succumbs to her own emotional irrationality—understands how obsessive, how unhealthy, it was to cling to his mere memory as though that alone would heal her overwhelming grief. As though that alone would protect her from any future heartache.

But the other part—the part she has a harder time convincing otherwise—believed she truly needed him to survive. His absence left a vast, gaping chasm of sorts in her chest; it hurt to breathe, it hurt to be still. But somehow, in this weird unexpected way, the _Normandy_ crew makes it hurt... _less_. The gaping wound is still there, and every once in a while it throbs with such relentless guilt and nostalgia, she feels like she can't breathe.

But whether it's discussing the latest cloaking tech with Tali, brainstorming possible tattoo designs with Jack, secretly watching Jacob do pushups in the armory, or comparing tales of espionage with Garrus and Samara, she feels like new might not mean worse; like, the wound is still there, but it's cauterized. Like maybe this strange group of people has become family, and she can finally begin to think about putting Kejii behind her.

Before she heads down to the debrief with Shepard about the Collectors, she places Kejii's miniature inside her bodysuit, close to her heart.

 _Behind, yes_ , she thinks, _but not forgotten_.

* * *

Zaeed things Glory used to gleam more fervently from behind the authoritative end of a rifle. Back when the sweet, metallic scent of a contract hit was as intoxicating as the warm embrace of a worshipful woman; when he honestly couldn't say which one satiated his carnality more thoroughly. Back before the Collectors were a speck on anyone's non-Alliance issue radar. Back when killing was the sport, the reward a pathetic, quivering plea for mercy.

Zaeed's no saint. He's done enough massacring in his lifetime to make a Vorcha blush, and Cerberus is paying him an obscene amount of money to be a part of this mission, _Shepard's_ mission. But despite himself, despite his general amorality, he's invested in this one.

Glory's usually a solitary pursuit, and the odds of survival are generally much more favorable to him; but this time, there's no guarantee he'll see this one through to the end with his head attached to his damn neck. Best case scenario, he takes that son of a bitch, Harbinger, down with his M-8, Jessie, as the rigor mortis spreads through his charred corpse, causing his finger to seize up on the trigger one last time.

In all his years as a merc, it's never been about more than mounting the kill's head above his mantel place and cashing in the credits. But this time...

He thinks back to the last job he had on Omega—the last run he made with the Blue Suns. Some wealthy political figure had gone and gotten his daughter kidnapped by a Batarian gang from deep in the Omega slums.

Frail, knobby-kneed, little thing, she was. When they found her, she looked as if she'd been baptized in blood. She'd had clumps of it in her matteed blonde hair, streaks of it down her pretty blue jumper, and specks of it on her Teddy, the one she'd been clutching onto as if it alone possessed the final vestige of her innocence. Surrounded by the mutilated corpses of her captors, he'd assumed her victorious, but at what cost?

Zaeed's no saint. The long list of sins and irreparable wrongs etched into his ledger need no assistance in advertising that fact. But even _he_ had trouble sleeping after that mission. Even _he_ believes that, besides Glory, innocence is a hell of a thing worth fighting for. Perhaps once he and Shepard are done playing heroes for the whole damn universe, they can pursue Her once again.

Glory, for what it's worth, no longer the brilliant blaze it once was, smolders noiselessly through what's left of its tarnished exterior, the faint lure of bloodlust and eternal greatness ever present.

 _All of it, meaningless,_ he thinks. _The shattered visage of Ozymandias._


End file.
